Of Whiskey And Voices
by medievalweaponry
Summary: "My dad used to drink whiskey." An edge of bitterness that he fought to keep out of his voice whenever a drunk Tony got on his nerves seeped through, but JARVIS didn't give a damn what he said and didn't say. "He used to drink whiskey and then beat the crap out of me and my mom. And what he'd do after was even worse."


"Agent Barton." The mechanical voice that was patched into his new hearing aids caught his attention. He'd skipped the usual hiding places—the air vents, Coulson's office and the roof—in favor of something less predictable. Something they wouldn't expect from him. Thankfully, he wasn't too recognizable, unlike Natasha and the rest of the group, so sunglasses and a coat were enough to blend him in with all of the disgruntled New Yorkers pushing to cut through the subway line. "Agent Barton."

"Hella busy, JARVIS. Catch you later." He quickly raised a phone to his ear before talking, not wanting to look more insane than he already did.

"Agent Barton. Agent Romanoff and the team are searching for you. Would you like me to alert them to your location?" His ears were still sore from when Tony and Bruce had put him under after the last mission, replacing the aids SHIELD had given him with newer Stark models, complete with built in comm line and mini JARVIS. The clearer quality of the noise made his head hurt like hell, but at least he could turn these off for awhile, if he wanted. Escape the loud noises. And he thought he'd done that, but evidently JARVIS overrode those settings.

"Tony drinks whiskey, you know." He waited until everyone had cleared out before cracking his neck to relieve the building pressure as he spoke.

"I'm well aware, sir." JARVIS sounded like he disapproved, but that was proof of how far gone Clint was. Hearing emotions in an AI's voice wasn't exactly the clean bill of mental health that everyone was hoping for, after the attack on the helicarrier.

"My dad used to drink whiskey." An edge of bitterness that he fought to keep out of his voice whenever a drunk Tony got on his nerves seeped through, but JARVIS didn't give a damn what he said and didn't say. "He used to drink whiskey and then beat the crap out of me and my mom. And what he'd do after was even worse." He snorted. "I ain't nothin' special, JARVIS. Just a punkass street kid pretending I'm one of the big guys."

"Agent Barton, I would beg to differ—"

"Then why did Tony call me expendable, huh?" He hissed. "Why did he say marksmen were a dime a dozen and that I don't contribute much to the team? Why did he say I was just freeloading because the team needs Tasha and she wouldn't go without me?"

"Agent Barton, Sir was drunk and likely meant nothing of what he said."

"People don't lie when they're drunk. It's the only way to get someone to tell the truth." He sighed. "Stark's got it right. I ain't an Avenger, JARVIS. Just a SHIELD lackey who the WSC wants out of the way anyway."

"I understand that the details of the investigation are being kept private between yourself, Agent Romanoff and Agent Coulson, but alerting the team of the situation would promote communication."

"Ain't no need for communicating when I ain't on the team for long." He snorted. "I'm gonna be gone within the week, just watch."

"Agent Barton, Sir has taken the liberty of broadcasting this conversation over the common room speakers. I apologize for not letting you know, but you would not have been honest otherwise."

"Comes with being a spy." He grunted. "No need to apologize. Stark's always sticking his nose into shit he don't belong in."

"After the attack, the team was concerned about your sudden shift in behavioral patterns. I was attempting to assist the team in getting to the root of the problem. My sincerest apologies, Agent Barton."

"Chill out. It's alright." He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to sound too annoyed. "Tell Tasha I'll be out. Seeing the tigers."

Only Tasha knew that was a code for which safe house he'd be at. This time, it was a comfortable little apartment he could see Avengers Tower from, complete with Lucky waiting for him at the door and a couple houseplants he kept watered and fed. Hopefully Tasha would come, if she wanted, but maybe she wouldn't. He wasn't sure of much anymore.

"Sir would like to know if you'd like him to stop drinking whiskey."

"He can do whatever the hell he wants if he ain't beatin' on me after."

"I will let Sir know."

"Thanks, JARVIS. Now leave me the fuck alone." He unlocked the door to the dusty apartment, breathing in the smell of leather couches and dog before sitting on the couch, barely noticing when Lucky jumped up onto his lap, begging to be pet and touched. He was done, far too done, because whiskey always threw him for a loop. He always needed to be hit after whiskey.

"Good night, Agent Barton."

"Yeah. Bye." He sighed, laying his head back against the wall. Maybe Tasha would come. Maybe she wouldn't. But if she did, she could be sure that he wasn't listening for it. He didn't want his hopes up that far.


End file.
